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Implements of Hell

Remember that girl that was over in my area thundering around with Gay Manager because her boyfriend had gotten down on one knee at the end of the marathon they were running not to have a heart attack, but to ask her to marry him? I don't remember what I called her.

Anyway she's getting married finally and I'm supposed to stuff money in an envelope for her celebratory work cake and go to Target to shop her wedding gift registry. Um, was I invited to the fucking wedding? Why would I go to Target and buy her a wedding gift?

Architect - memba him? - is back in the building and separated from his wife. Yes now that I'm fat and hideous and "engaged" myself.

He did ask me a rando totally unnecessary question the other day when we were in Active Shooter Avoidance Class together. (Yes, that's a thing).

I turned around and looked at him emotionlessly. I do everything emotionlessly now, unless I'm having a midweek meltdown which I do like clockwork, rather emotionlessly in itself. Maybe he had just wanted me to move because my mullet and pomp were blocking the slideshow.

He smiled and asked something about the generator I'd been trying to procure for the last year. His bloo eyes flashed and I remembered all the imaginary moments I'd had with him in 2010. Through my wall of antipsychotics and depressants, I felt the disappointment I had always felt then rise up to the surface of the vast dead sea that is me.

I muttered and shrugged and turned back around to watch someone get shot at work.